


Like A Fiend

by calmlikesurrender



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Cannibalism, Gore, M/M, Non Consensual, Rape, Serial Killers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:20:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmlikesurrender/pseuds/calmlikesurrender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically Harry and Zayn kill people, Liam’s a mistake, and Niall’s just a tooth in a jewelry box.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A Fiend

Harry likes the way they taste different before those last few breaths and after. How their chests pale so pretty for him, limp with phlegm and blood pooling at the crease of their mouth. He likes the tears, but the begging digs deep into his temples so he gags them up good, fists into their hair to drag their head back so he can watch closely when the knife punctures the delicate skin at their throat. Watch them try to scream past the cloth over their lips.

He likes that everyone’s weak right then, at the end. Everyone’s begging. Begging to live. Begging to die. An entire  _life_  in his hands. It’s the most powerful he’s ever felt, standing over them knowing he’s the difference.

Fuck, he gets hard just thinking about it.

Zayn just wants a drink and a little friction.

Now, though, he’s standing at the stove, watching the butter melt down, trying to remember if he left his coat in the car or his office and whether it’s worth it to even check. He can hear the low grunts from the living room, and he rolls his eyes.

It’s Harry’s late grandmother’s cottage. She died when he was sixteen. He keeps an old photograph of her on the mantle. When Zayn wants to piss Harry off, he tells him she can see everything he’s doing. She’s watching you scrubbing those blood stains out of her precious bamboo floors and the fat bitch’s heart is breaking, Harry. Can’t you hear her? She’s standing there burning and you’re making it worse.

When Harry wants to piss Zayn off he grabs a kid off the street and roughs him up, gives him a few decent bruises, then fucks him into the mattress so loud Zayn can’t ignore it.

This time it’s a kid who can’t be older than twelve or thirteen. His eyes are swollen shut, fingers trying to find hold somehow in the floor, clenching into fists, then flopping down limp, fanning out.

Zayn fills up a glass then adds a little lemon and walks over to sit on the couch behind them, watch lazily while Harry pounds into him, hands on his hips, holding him up on his hands and knees.

“You’re a sick bastard, you know that?” Zayn tells him, sipping.

Harry laughs, then groans. Bites his bottom lip when the kid gasps, tries to struggle away. Harry just grips him tighter, pushes his face down into the floor harder and harder until his whines start to sound like they’re filtered through sap, and Zayn can hear the little cracks of bone from his nose breaking.

“You want?” Harry asks him, peppering the back of the boy’s neck in gentle kisses.

Zayn says no. Sips, “I made dinner,” sips again. He dips his finger in the glass, and wriggles out the lemon slice.

The boy shudders and starts to gag, sinking down so he’s resting on his forearms, the only thing keeping his ass up is Harry’s strong grip.

He waits until Zayn’s on his second glass before he goes for his knife, takes the kid again with it lying on the floor beside them.

“What’s your name?” Zayn asks, sipping, watching the dark splatter of blood between their bodies.

“It’s Niall,” Harry says for him, grinding up, these slow thrusts like he wants to make it good, make him beg.

Zayn sips, swallows, “Stupid name.”

Zayn designed the basement. Harry built it. Three months mortgage and enough stainless steel to build a rocket ship. A few decent-sized cages, a surgical table dead center, and Harry’s personal favorite- a bolt-locked pantry full of instruments that sang dirges like a Southern choir.

The kid’s on the table, squirming around through the straps, trying to get free.

He can’t say much by way of begging, a strip of cloth over his mouth. Not that it would help.

Harry had already removed his tongue and teeth, kept them in the little tray by the table so he could add them to his stash upstairs. He keeps their teeth in his grandmother’s old jewelry box. The tongue he’d probably stick in the fridge for breakfast tomorrow. Get Zayn to make coffee while he fries it up with eggs and toast.

Harry kisses the kid, smoothes his hair down, then starts to cut.

Zayn’s standing back, watching, sipping. It’s the closest he’s been in months, but it still feels like too much. Since Liam, almost everything does. When Harry asks him to help holding him down, Zayn feels like he’s going to be sick.

He just walks upstairs, sets his cup on the bathroom sink, and steps into the shower.

It takes him about ten minutes and a few handfuls of soap to realize he never took his clothes off.

When Harry comes up from the basement, he’s covered in chunks and scratches, this goofy lopsided grin, dimples for days. Zayn’s standing at the stove, soaking wet, scooping food onto two dinner plates. Harry wraps his arms around him, kisses his neck.

“It’s been a long time,” he says, trying to seem supportive, but Zayn can hear the warning there.

 _Too long_ , he’s saying,  _What’s wrong with you?_

But Zayn doesn’t know how to say it.

He’s.. broken? Somehow. Maybe.

Or fixed. Whole. He sees brown eyes and short-cropped hair and wants to cry.

“I left you some,” Harry says, smiles. Zayn holds his glass out, lets Harry pour a bit of blood into his wine.

This is the time for introspection- when he’s not buried deep.

Zayn drops bodies like a fiend. Digs through them like cadavers. His sheets are long strips of freezer-kissed metal. Iron like a blade. He never knew how to do this gently, how to show affection. He couldn’t even say his name.

“Babe,” over and over, “Baby. Sweetheart. Darling.” He’s twisted, his fingers stretched out like syringes. Like a scalpel, Liam’s smooth skin just begging to be sliced away and Zayn can almost taste him now, watching Harry shoveling food into his mouth, little drops of blood pooling off his curls into his mashed potatoes. Liam wouldn’t stop crying.

“Does it hurt?”

Liam had nodded. Zayn ignored it.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he’d whispered, tearing him apart, “I promise.”

After they eat, Harry slips into bed with his hair still damp from the shower. Zayn closes his eyes and tries to remember the sound of Liam’s bones breaking.

He slips his hand beneath the band of his boxers and closes his eyes, brings it all back.

The soft hushes, Liam’s slick heat, his lips parted, the heady rush of power.

How he tasted at the end. How he tasted an hour later.

Zayn doesn’t wait for Harry to slip off, just fists at himself right there. Moaning like a whore, rocking up into his hand, craving it again. More even. Everything. Nothing. The idea of everything.

Harry shifts on the bed, and Zayn squeezes tighter.

“ _Fuck_.” It’s too good. Almost painful.

Harry mumbles, groans. Zayn ignores it.

What had Liam said? Staring up at Zayn with his eyes so pretty, ringed with dried blood, with fiery bruises, come dripping down his cheeks.

Oh, he’d said please.

God, he’d begged, fingers flexing in their ties. And Zayn had given him everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me if there's a tag I missed that you think I should add. I'm still getting the hang of posting.


End file.
